


shadows are gliding through the brake

by wanderlustlover



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 09:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustlover/pseuds/wanderlustlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The place she loves best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadows are gliding through the brake

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge: Centennial International Women's Day  
> Prompt: Marian: Sherwood  
> Author: wanderlustlover  
> Summary: The place she loves best.  
> Disclaimer: Marian belongs to all of history, and sometimes to the BBC and Lucy Griffiths. The title belongs to Alfred Noryes 'Sherwood.'

Bower. Sanctuary. Safe haven. Chapel.   
  
No word you could give would be the enough.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sherwood. Sherwood. Sherwood. Sherwood.   
It whispered in her like a heart beat from childhood.   
  
She went there and she lost something of herself and gained something of herself, like all little girls in the fables the women tell when preparing food in the kitchen or amusing the children through their first months of needle point, when everything always comes out wrong.   
  
The changeling children changed with human child who wander too far.   
  
  
  
  
Sherwood. Sherwood. Sherwood. Sherwood.   
Ever the sound of that rustling in the trees.   
  
Streamers of coal black curls, like a banner as she ran for it each time. For the space and the freedom. For something so big, she could never once claim to be queen of it. She could be its fairy, it's child, its heir for this decade.   
  
But she was transient beside it. It's age. It's grandeur. It's magic.   
  
  
  
Sherwood. Sherwood. Sherwood. Sherwood.   
A lass of shredded dress; a freeborn lady rider.   
  
How could she not have loved the boy whose eyes matched its pools, and who's hair was like the bark in early spring, all those colors? Always messy from running between the trees himself, both old and young, always pulling leaves from it.   
  
He understood. He did. In each time. He would never have asked her to leave.


End file.
